


Like The Flower That Flutters Over There

by andthesunranon



Category: Golden Child (Korea Band)
Genre: ....at first, Alternate Universe - College/University, He hates his roomate, How Do I Tag, M/M, Music college, Rich kid Joochan, Some angst, Violin student, arts school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthesunranon/pseuds/andthesunranon
Summary: Joochan isn't sure choosing to study violin at an arts college was the right decision, but it's all he's ever planned of doing. He's not sure who he'd be, if he gave it up now.And yet, now that he's actually on campus- running late to all his classes, trying to avoid the attention of his stricter teachers- he realises keeping certain things to himself will be harder than he'd thought. It looks like the only person who can help him out is his new roommate, a moody, solitary type who goes by 'Y'. There's only one problem, though: they hate each other.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	1. Roommate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First songs for the 'Violin' playlist:
> 
> Without You- Golden Child  
> Where Do We Go- Lindsey Stirling (the song I got this fic idea from ovo )

The sun is high in the sky by the time Joochan reaches campus. He can see the glare of it through the sleek black car’s tinted windows, dark enough to make ghosts of all the faces that turn its way. Crowds already swarm over the pavements, parting where they stray onto the road. The driver in the front seat tuts and mumbles. His eyes search for Joochan’s in the mirror, but he turns away. 

In the reflection caught in the window, he can see bags under his eyes. His hair is styled up and out of his face in waves that are supposed to look careless, as always, but it’s already started to look tattered. His eyes are too wide, his lips pressed too tight- even without the travelling, the creeping stress of being in an unfamiliar place, he knows he would still look like this. He had barely slept all week.

The car eventually pulls into the wide, flat car parks only found in cities as affluent as this, and Joochan forces himself out of the door. New, unmarked concrete crunches under his shoes as he breathes in deep, letting the city air fill his lungs, laced with smoke and petrol.

“This way, Sir,” his driver chirps, a duffle bag clutched in either hand. “I’m afraid your accommodation is a little out of the way.” 

He follows the older man across campus for the better part of an hour, keeping his gaze on the back of his perfectly pressed black suit. His skin crawls from the gazes following them; Joochan shuffles the single bag slung over his shoulder, and tries not to notice how people eye the bags that weigh his driver down.

“I believe this is your building, Sir.”

It’s overwhelmingly white face is cut into sections by floor-to-ceiling panels of glass, the shade so pure it seems to glow in the sun, the light glancing off the windows searing into his eyes. He squints upwards, seeing the building stretch on and on and on. Joochan sighs under his breath and pushes himself through a heavy metal door into the lobby, starting forward before his driver can maneuver his luggage and hold it open for him.

The lobby is small but grande, with a solid, blackwood desk and a patterned yellow rug Joochan’s sure his mother owns. His driver presses the elevator button on the side wall and ushers him inside. 

Distant classical music floats through hidden speakers and Joochan clings to the notes, suddenly feeling more alone, as golden copies of himself stare at him from the shining elevator walls. They slide open, too quickly, and his driver paces over blue floral carpet,, and slides a key into a door marked 79.

“After you, Sir” he says with a smile.

The inside is vast and clean, bleached of all colour bar startling white. There’s a small kitchen pushed into the corner to his left, separated from the rest of the room by a marble countertop that sticks out like a bar, and, further in, a sofa is pushed up against white brick, opposite a TV. The window directly in front of him looks out onto the city below, the new students flocking campus turned into little more than scrambling ants. The wooden floor at the entrance creaks as he steps inside, marked here and there like the scratched surfaces in the kitchen. The only doors- a bedroom to the left, a bathroom to the right- are splattered with some unknown liquid, their paint dull and chipped. Even in a school like this, he supposes, a dorm is still a dorm.

Joochan frowns at a small, black circle on the tv unit- a speaker. His roommate is already here. There’s a desperate moment where he prays they’ve finished unpacking and left already, now that the afternoon is wearing away, but the hope is fleeting. There’s a thump from behind the bedroom door, and a faint hum like low music. Joochan gulps and strides to the door, pushing it open before he can stop to think.

The room is fairly big, at least. There are two beds against one wall, two desks against the opposite, a mirrored wall he guesses is a wardrobe at the back. His eyes only flicker over it all briefly though, unable to take in the details: his roommate is crouched near the furthest bed, rummaging through a suitcase. 

The boy’s face is turned away and there are headphones over his ears, the same dark shade as his clothes- ripped jeans, tank top. He looks up as Joochan steps further inside. He drops the headphones to his neck, but then Joochan’s driver steps into the room, and drops his luggage onto the free bed. The boy on the floor scoffs and turns his face away. 

“That should be everything, Sir. If there’s anything you need, let me know.” Joochan watches dumbly as his driver smiles and bows, leaving his key on the bed. “Sir,” he says with a nod to the boy on the floor, but he doesn’t even look up, just continues to shift through a stack of CDs in his hands. 

Joochan’s pulse spikes, but he makes himself smile at the driver, who sees himself out. His roommate still doesn’t look at him, so he takes the opportunity to observe the room more.

It’s half the size of his own, but there’s enough space between the beds for a third, and the carpet sinks beneath his feet as he takes in the clean, sturdy desks, finds a dimmer switch near the door, wipes a finger over everything, that comes back clean. The walls here are white too, as are the crisp bed sheets- his roommate is doing his best to hide that, though. 

There’re posters covering the wall above his bed and desk- even one branching out onto the side of the mirrors that Joochan frowns at- and as he throws his suitcase into the wardrobe, Joochan catches sight of the crumpled white fabric of the bedding he has replaced. His bed is, unsurprisingly, also black, with a grey checkered pattern. Books and other random items are strewn over the desk, which is already lit in a blue glow by a neon sign that has been hung over it. Joochan tries not to stare at it as the boy disappears into the wardrobe. As he reappears, pushing hoodie sleeves past his forearms, his eyes land on the small case Joochan is propping against the wall. He throws his headphones onto his mattress.

“Music major?” he says.

Joochan nods, unable to do anything else. The other boy’s expression still hasn’t changed. His features are sharp and clever, his parted, dark hair just falling over one eye, pushed away from his face in a way that only makes him look more intimidating. Joochan supposes he would be handsome, if he didn’t look like he was scowling all the time.

The man sits on the edge of his bed, and Joochan can see himself, again, reflected in glass: his bleached, styled hair, the watch that glints at his wrist, the light grey of his jacket and trousers, white shirt perfectly folded between them- it’s all so different from his roommate. He half expects to disappear into the walls if he doesn’t move, camouflaged there forever. Right now, the idea isn’t unappealing. 

“I’m in the dance department,” the other boy says, lacing up a combat boot. “I doubt we’ll see much of each other.”

As if to prove the statement, he’s already grabbing a wallet and his keys from the mess on his desk, and heading for the open door.

“Wait,” Joochan hears himself say. His heart does a back-flip as the boy half turns back to him, an eyebrow slightly raised. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Sungyoon,” a slightly nasally voice answers, as if he’s already bored, “but most people call me Y.”

“Nice to meet you, Y.” Joochan tires out the name, wondering if it seems awkward coming from him, testing if Y’s brows knit at the familiarity of it on his tongue. His expression doesn’t tell him anything, so he points a finger at his own chest: “I’m Joochan.”

Y nods. His eyes travel to the bags piled on Joochan’s bed, and his lips quirk. “Can you do that yourself, or do you need help with it?”

Joochan almost thanks him, but then catches Sungyoon’s eye, and understands better. 

Y waves a key in the air in what might be a goodbye, and turns with an amused huff. Joochan can still feel the spike of anger in his stomach when he hears the front door click, and is left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! As always, comments are appreciated :)


	2. Running Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More song on the playlist:
> 
> Sleepwalking- Lindsey Stirling  
> If- Onewe

Campus is exactly how he’d expected it to be. The square his dorm opens out onto is wide and paved with neat, dun bricks. There is a perfect circle of grass at its center, and benches of pale wood are scattered here and there, already full of students either lost or waiting for friends, all huddled over expensive-looking phones. Y was gone by the time he’d woken up- either that, or, as Joochan finds easier to believe, hadn’t gotten back yet- and Joochan walks through the square alone, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

His first class is to be held in the central building, big and grande enough to be a reformed cathedral, with wide stone steps raising it from another light-brick courtyard. The ceilings are high and elaborately carved, and the click of his shoes echo back at him from cold stone walls- a chandelier hangs overhead, gilded and glistening with crystals that fall from it like icicles. The corridors stretch on and on in twisting vines, and it takes longer than expected for him to find the room number on the timetable clutched in his hand. By the time he pushes the heavy wooden door open, his heart is pounding so fast his head is spinning. Nauseous fills his stomach as a dozen heads snap in his direction. 

The woman at the front pauses only briefly in her speech on school etiquette (Joochan internally screams at himself), to cover a scowl with a tight-lipped smile. She gestures to the only chair not taken and says: “Take a seat here at the front, for now. We don’t expect students to show up late for class.”

Joochan mutters an apology and ducks as quickly as he can to the front row. He had planned to pick the seat closest to the back, out of the way, for the rest of the year. Now, not only are the teacher’s eyes constantly on him, he can feel the presence of all the students behind him, too. The image of them shifts and elongates in his mind, until they’re leering over him, their eyes glaring into the back of his head. He keeps his head down, and scratches as few notes as he can onto a journal. 

When the two hour slot is over- nothing more than welcome talks and syllabus run-throughs- he slips out of his seat before anyone else has packed up, and walks back out into the sun with a pace he only  _ just _ keeps from frenzied. He fumbles as he tries to shove his journal back in his bag, his hands shaking.

And, of course, he immediately runs into someone.

The book and bag in his hands fly over the steps, and he stumbles back a pace. The stranger yelps and throws out a hand, gripping Joochan’s arm for support. 

Joochan gasps and pulls it free. He turns and swipes his bag up. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“It’s alright,” the stranger grins at him. 

He’s tall, and wearing clothes that make even Joochan’s look cheap- a long, cream coat over a dark suit and white turtleneck. His hair is tinted burgundy, the red only obvious when he bends to pick up the journal, when its hit by the light filtering over the brick rooftops.  Joochan hears a rumble of whispers, and looks past him.

There’s a crowd of students, mostly women, watching him from the side of the courtyard- or, rather, watching the stranger. They whisper and pull at each other, doing nothing to hide their interest. The stranger turns his head, following Joochan’s eyeline, and Joochan thinks he hears a name among the mumbling: Jibeom. The squealing gets louder as the group stumble over each other, dragging their eyes elsewhere as quickly as they can. The stranger let out an awkward, short laugh. 

“Don’t mind them,” he says, handing the book over. His voice is deep and warm, and lilts with an unexpected accent. It makes him seem warmer, somehow, than his initial impression. He tilts his head, frowning so his eyebrows lower over large, round eyes. “I’m not sure where they came from.”

“Right,” Joochan mumbles. His heart has stopped its violent shaking, but he feels nerves creep in again at even more unwanted eyes. “Well, sorry again.”

The stranger- Jibeom- walks backwards over the steps, waving a hand dismissively through the air. “Already forgotten, Joochan.” Joochan starts, and the man smiles again. “Have a nice day.” He winks once, and strides into the building. 

The group eye Joochan for a moment in the silence that follows. He throws his bag over a shoulder, and drags himself down the steps. He folds his hands away from the chill- he should have brought gloves, but he was running too late to remember. There’s a pair of headphones in one, and his fingers curl around the smooth plastic, but he can't bring himself to put them in. His fingers tap against them, restless, until he reaches his next- and last- introductory session of the day. He picks a seat at the back of a large, tiered lecture theatre, and prays no one tries to talk to him.

It's less specific than his morning class, and the people that filter gradually through the doors aren’t all in his department. Some already chatter in pairs or small flocks as they enter, but most are alone, and take a moment to scan the seats. A few students lower down have already started calling their majors out, and soon groups are congregating: there’s a crowd of vocal students near the front, all bright and social and well dressed, laughing and waltzing through aisles to greet each other; a mixture of orchestra and jazz and production student are to their right, with their stiff suits and serious expressions, cases being leaned carefully against desks already covered in notebooks; and, lingering near the left wall, are a flurry of dancers. Joochan tries not to look at them too closely. He lets his eyes fly over the mass of tight jeans, billowing shirts and baggy sportswear, the lean figures sprawled in chairs and perching atop the lengthy, thin desks. Unless his roommate has suddenly discovered colours other than black exist- a possibility the brief glance Joochan had taken into the wardrobe before pushing his case under his bed makes seem unlikely- Y isn’t there. For the first day of class. _ How surprising. _

At last, their lecturer flounces in, but just as they’re about to start the session, Joochan’s view is cut off by a figure rushing up the stairs. A short, fair haired boy in a striped jumper reaches the top of the stairs with a pant.

“Sorry, do you mind,” he says, and its all Joochan can do to keep the dread from his face as he nods, and the boy collapses beside him, just as the clock ticks the hour. “It's the last free chair, is all. I’m Seungmin.” The boy holds out a hand, and Joochan shakes it so softly he can see the other boy hesitate. Seungmin’s eyebrows twitch curiously, and he smiles. “What department are you in?”

He’s aware distantly that the lecturer has started talking, but Seungmin drops his voice, and Joochan can think of no reason not to answer, so he mumbles “I pl- I play the violin.”

“Instruments, and you're in the string section?” Seungmin laughs shortly, his mouth open wide, “What are the chances! I play harp, myself- we’ll probably be in the same classes. ”

_ Of all the people I could be sat next to _ . They’re the first performing arts student he’s talked to bar Y, and they’re an instrument major. In the strings section. Joochan’s tongue darts across his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He shoots Seungmin what he hopes is a smile, and the grinning boy turns to the front, finally tuning into whatever the lecturer is saying. It takes Joochan another few moments to stop feeling so stricken, but its not until the very end of the hour that he’s told anything useful anyway.

His major, as its his first year, is mostly made up of core, compulsory modules, but, he’s told, there are a few chances to choose modules for himself. Every first year only gets to choose one, and his skim nervously over the list on the sheet he’s handed. He finds his department, ignoring the students who have turned round and started discussing the options with Seungmin. There are modules on certain periods of history, enthromusicality, orchestration and conducting, some more essay based courses on musical analysis. Only one really stands out, and he circles the code for composition before gathering his things and striding down the steps before the other students can notice him. He hands his paper to the lecturer with a tight smile, and pushes out of the theatre before most of the class have even moved. He draws his hood up as he makes his way back to his dorm room, fumbling with the key as he lets himself in. Y still isn’t there. He stares at the violin case leaning next to his bed for a moment. 

He snaps the door shut, and throws himself onto the sofa in the living room. He tries not to think about how it isn’t his, or all the other people who have been in this apartment before him, and wastes the night away watching some movie he’ll never remember the name of after this, trying to silence the rush of thoughts of the coming days and everything they will bring.

Some time in the small hours of the morning Y topples into their shared room, but if he notices Joochan is still awake, he ignores it.


	3. Interval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Compass- GolCha  
> Don't Listen In Secret- Seventeen

The first week is spent mostly on introductory classes and welcome talks, and Joochan spends more time finding buildings than working. He still hasn’t visited the library, but doubts he’ll spend much time there. He forces himself to go into one of the many cafes sprinkled around campus. He avoids any further conversation with his classmates.

His roommate is still mostly absent- gone before Joochan can wake up and stumbling in late, more often than not accompanied by a faint smell of alcohol- and so they still haven’t spoken properly. Joochan’s luggage stays tucked under his bed, and the kitchen cupboards are empty, the living room barely disturbed. He occasionally kicks a shirt or pair of jeans back over to Y’s side of the room, but other than the small pile of laundry that accumulates over there, the apartment looks almost exactly the same as when he’d arrived. The leather violin case stays atop his desk, where he’d moved it, and gathers dust. It’s the middle of the second week before he even touches it. 

He’s back in the old cathedral, where his first class was held, early enough that there’s still a chill in the air when he stumbles from his dorm. The case feels heavier than normal, and he shifts it to his other hand, rubbing the chill from his muscles against fitted, grey trousers. He hadn’t expected the weather to turn so quickly, and by the time he reaches class, his fingers have started to turn white. He’d forgot his gloves again.

He makes sure he gets there early this time, so succeeds in sliding into the shadowed back rows before the other students show up. There’s nothing in the room but the short rows of chairs and wide gap at the front for their teacher, and he feels old nerves creep into his bones everytime he looks up to catch sight of a stand with abandoned music sheets in the corner, or another students eyes on his violin case as they set their own instruments at their sides. They’re spread out more here, and no one breaks the stifling, buzzing silence.

They stand to greet the teacher as she waltzes in, and Joochan uses the flurry of movement to nudge his violin case under his chair with a heel. They’re made to introduce themselves, and then rearranged to sit in instruments groups. He’s at the front again. This time, there’s another violin case to his right, a viola balanced on the student to his left’s lap, and cello and bass players sit behind him. There’s a harp against the front wall, and Seungmin sits near it, having arrived practically with the teacher. The appraising gaze he gets must mean she hadn’t noticed. Joochan sees how her eyes skim over the rest of the string players, but relaxes slightly- there are more people in here than he’d thought, and the students next to him will buy him some time, at least. Seungmin catches his eye with a small wave, seemingly unaware of Joochan’s sudden fidgeting. 

As he’d expected, they’re asked one by one to play a short piece for their teacher, starting at the back of the room. The only bass player takes ‘short’ liberally, and so the progress around the room is slow. There're pieces slow and melancholic that hang sorrowfully in the silent air; other’s sharp and darting, that mimic how Joochan’s heart lurches in his chest everytime a player finishes their piece too soon. There are soft, twinkling pieces that irritate him, but even these fill the minutes. By the time the playing reaches his row, his eyes are glued to the pearly face of the grandfather clock in the corner. The student next to him checks the tuning on their violin. They place the bow atop the strings- and the clock chimes the hour.

The teacher turns to it in irritation, but gestures for the student to continue. They race through a bouncy overture, and then the teacher turns to Joochan and the only student to his left. 

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’ll have to hear your pieces next session,” she says, “do come prepared.” 

Joochan is so eager to escape that he forgets briefly about his next class, surging through the maze of campus buildings as fast as his feet will carry him. He’s crossed over two courtyards before he realises, and has to retrace his steps, squinting at the crumpled map his driver had left him. He fights his way into a low, office-like building just as the last few dregs of early-morning students saunter out. 

Great. He’s going to be late again.

The students already sit in pairs in the computer booths of a spacious room, all glass and polished wood, when a man in wireframe glasses looks him up and down.

“Joochan, is it?” The man asks. “We’ve already gone through the introductions, you’ll have to get your partner to fill you in.”

He doesn’t bother telling him where to go- there’s only one student not paired up. He finds them quickly, shifts the case in his hand awkwardly and walks to the booth. By the way the other students glance around and stifle their laughter, he guesses they got to pick their own partners. The student doesn’t notice, though. His head is down, dark hair pressed down over thick headphones that are starting to look very, very familiar.

“Why- why are you here?” He hears himself breath.

Y turns towards the noise, knocking one side of his headphones off an ear in a way that shows he wasn’t listening. Y glances down at the case in his hand, then back up to his face, one eyebrow raised in an expression Joochan is really starting to get tired of.

“Why are you in this class?” He repeats, grateful for the chance to correct his tone this time, with Sungyoon’s face as stormy as ever. “I thought you were-”

“Composition was open to all departments.” Y had already turned back to the computer, but as Joochan hesitates, his eyes flicker back to Joochan. “Are you gonna sit, or do I need to pull the chair out for you?”

Joochan bites the inside of his cheek and drags the chair out with his heel, hoping Y misses how he shrinks from the marked fabric covering it. Y slouches lower in his own, and Joochan turns around to see all of the other pairs, happy faces pushed close together and talking. They’re all discussing some worksheet he’d missed, but just as he turns to ask Sungyoon about it, his roommate slides a copy to him over the table, not bothering to look away from the screen. He taps at the keyboard without a word.

Anger spikes through Joochan, and before he can stop himself, he spits “What is your problem?”

He sees a flash of sharp, white teeth as Y lets out a short, mean laugh. “Maybe I don’t like being partnered with someone who can’t even show up on time.”

Joochan almost points out that Y didn’t even show up to their first day, but realises that makes it sound like he’d looked for him. He’s saved the trouble bringing up Y’s constant early-morning returns by a shadow falling over them. A tall man who looks older than both of them offers him a shy smile.

“Sorry, but,” the students rubs at his neck, and Y’s eyes drag back to the computer from where he’d been glaring at Joochan with a huff, “it seems there’s an odd number. Mind if I join your group?” 

“Please,” Joochan says, in a way that might sound more sincere than he’d meant it to. He waves the man Daeyeol, he’s told- into the chair next to him. 

Daeyeol’s a performance student too, but he’s a drummer, and admits it’s been a few years since he was in school: he’s six years older than Joochan, and has an awkward but serious air that makes the distance obvious. At least he seems to know what they’re supposed to be doing.

Y makes no complaint about  _ him _ being late, but he doesn’t say much for the rest of the lesson, either, and Daeyeol pulls Joochan into a conversation about their project. They’ll be in groups all semester, until they hand their portfolios in before winter break. Another three months working his moody, anti-social roommate and a complete stranger, and, as far as he can tell, he’s the only one who can play an instrument other than drums. Great. This shouldn’t cause any issues. 


	4. Broken Notes And Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Still- DKB  
> We Lost The Summer- TXT
> 
> (This is the first chapter I've written entirely on the day of posting, so if there're any mistakes I'm really sorry!! Feel free to let me know in the comments)

Even after sharing a class, and knowing they’re at least slightly on the same schedule, Joochan wakes up alone. A dim orange glow has fallen over everything, and dust particles fall in slow-motion drifts- the neon sign above Y’s desk has been left on, a blue and jarring line of waves above the mess piling up below it. His bed is still made, untouched.

Joochan sighs and turns over, under sheets too crisp and scentless. The singular item on his own desk stares back at him: the violin case, half lit in warm lit, that glints off the shining clips, the unmarked, flawless leather. He has one class on Fridays- one class today, and it's practical, in the cathedral. The violin case waits on his desk. Joochan throws himself into a scolding shower, and locks the dorm behind him, without it.

He stops by the only cafe he can force himself into, and orders whatever his eyes land on first on the menu, drawing dark gloves over his fingers as he pushes his way back through the que. He’s already forgotten what it is by the time he’s stepping over cobblestones. It does nothing to stop the butterflies crawling up his throat, but he wraps his hands around it, letting the heat seep through the cheap, paper cup into his fingers. If he makes it through this class, he has two days to recover. Two days of nothing.

Joochan pretends the thought is comforting, and rushes through the familiar route. He waits outside the room until a familiar figure is dawdling towards him. Something uncomfortable tugs at his gut as Seungmin’s face lights up, recognising him, but the walk had been short, and this was all he’d had time to think of.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Morning,” Seungmin’s pretty smile reaches his eyes, and he pats Joochan’s arms as he stops. Joochan wonders if he’ll ever be so laid back. “How’s it going?”

The question throws him off so much that he hesitates, and Seungmin winces, misunderstanding. “You looked a little stressed the other day, is all.”

“Oh.” Maybe this will work after all. “Yeah, it’s nothing,” Joochan waves a hand through the air, trying to keep his voice nonchalant, “just my violin, got a little damaged in the move.” Seungmin makes a sympathetic noise in his throat and holds the door open. “You wouldn’t know if there’s any repair shops nearby, would you?”

“Actually, I might know one-”

Seungmin rattles off a few shops and addresses nearby, and Joochan sits next to him, making it look like he is listening, at least to distance himself from the other violinist. The viola player still to perform has a case on their lap, but the teacher’s eyes at least take a few more moments to find Joochan’s after the short piece.

“I believe you’re the last student we have to hear,” she beams at him. She presses her lips together briefly, and there’s a look in her eyes that Joochan recognises too late, and his stomach lurches. _Shit_. “I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to hearing you play. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She means since he auditioned. But that was months ago, at the start of the year. Joochan gulps, his fingers starting to itch. He’s glad he’d discarded the cup before he’d entered, cause this is not going to look good. 

“I-” his voice stops short as the teacher looks around him and frowns.

“But you didn’t bring your violin?”

“It broke, Miss.” He blurts, and rushes on, seeing her eyes widen. The other students are watching him now too. “Or go- got damaged, in the move, when I moved into my dorm.”

Seungmin speaks up next to him, successfully dragging the teacher’s attention from his stammering with his easy, silky voice. “I’ve been telling him where the repair shops are, Miss.”

“I see. Well, that is unfortunate.” Joochan holds his breath as she thanks Seungmin. “There are a few spare in the cupboard behind you, for now.”

“I’d rather play my own, Miss.”

She laughs and nods, missing the panic in his voice. Maybe she’d expected this response- Joochan’s platinum waves fall slightly into his eye, and his watch feels tight around his wrist, atop yet another pair of suit trousers. For once, he’s glad for the overall affect. “I’m sure you would. I know it’s not ideal, but they should play well enough, for just a few bars.”

She gestures to the side of the room, and Joochan has no choice but to rise and slide the wooden door open. In the dimness he steps into, he can just make out a few dusty old cases stacked against each other- he swallows as he sees a short, curved one, but crouches and snaps it open. The ugly orange wood is discoloured and scratched, and it’s shorter than his own. Its weight is different, when he lifts it to his shoulder, and his heart thunders in his chest- that helps a little, at least. The bow fits in his hand the same as always, and he allows himself only a few more seconds, crouched in the dark, his eyes pressed shut, before he treads into the light again. 

He takes his time tightening the bow, lining it with rosin, tuning the loosened strings. His hands shake, and someone shifts in their seat impatiently. 

Joochan’s shoulders jerk back once, quickly, and he fits the violin back into the crook of his neck. His breath shakes as he exhales.

The teacher leans toward him, her voice dipping as she fights off a grin. Joochan tries not to look at it. “No need to be nervous,” she says, and nods him on.

Somehow, he manages to think of a few bars of a piece he’d written last year. It’s basic and simple, a section without any complicated pizzicato patterns or double stops, and no doubt the other players notice, but the unfamiliar tune is enough to distract them at least slightly. His teacher closes her eyes, brows drawn together as she listens; he rushes through it as quickly as his hands allow. The entire piece is slightly out of pitch, and when he finally lifts the bow with a final stroke, the note wavers and breaks off awkwardly. His teacher’s eyes open with a start.

Seungmin stifles a laugh, and hits Joochan’s leg once. Joochan simultaneously pulls away and thanks every god he can name that he’d picked this seat. His cheeks burn violently, and he drops the instruments before it betrays his shaking hands even more, but the teacher thanks him all the same, laughing off the mistake as nerves at first playing to the class. He fiddles with the pegs absently, and she moves on, seemingly accepting the image of the violin being cheap and unplayable.

“I bet you’ll be glad to get your own back, after that” Seungmin laughs at him later, as they file out into the dome-ceilinged entrance.

Joochan huffs and rubs his neck as if embarrassed. He dismisses himself as quickly as he can, and all but runs back to the dorm. He throws himself into the shower, and sinks into the curls of smoke lining its slate base. When he gets out, his skin blushing scarlet from the heat, he wastes the rest of the day scrubbing angrily at every surface in the apartment- the stains on the back of doors, the marks on the mirrored wall in the bedroom, the counters in the living room and kitchen left by nameless, faceless students who were here before him. Performers, composers, conductors- he wipes them from every inch of the dorm. 

Frustration makes the progress faster, but the sun is down by the time he throws the last rag into the trash. His fingers ache, rubbed raw, by the time he falls into bed again, and lets fatigue override everything else that had been keeping him up since he’d arrived. 

He spends most of the weekend in bed- Y barely shows his face, so there’s no one around to shame him- only leaving to crumple on the sofa in a tangle of blankets. When Monday finally draws around again, he wakes with a start, his stomach aching. He shoves his violin into a corner of the wardrobe, and draws the blankets back over his head until well after noon.


	5. Composition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> ONE- Golcha  
> Waking Up (Acoustic)- Pvris

Joochan rolls his wrists as he waits in line. They still ache from his crazed cleaning spree. He guesses he deserves it. The only reason he’d crawled out of bed this morning was his afternoon class being composition. With Sungyoon. He doesn’t trust skipping wouldn’t cause more problems than it solves. So, he wraps his gloves fingers around another random, searing hot drink, and makes himself find the same tucked away booth in the computer suite.

Y is already there, but at least he’s on time today.

“Cold?”

Joochan turns to Y with a start- the other boy nods towards his gloves, the drink he is still clutching. Joochan feels his brain spin frantically. Is he being nice, or is this just gearing up to another inevitable insult? 

“Not really,” he settles on. He tugs the gloves off and shoves them in his pocket. Y turns back to the keyboard he’s tapping away at, and goes on ignoring him until Daeyeol arrives, eager as always. He buffers for a second, seemingly catching onto the awkward feeling that had settled since Y had spoken, but then greets them, and drops into the chair Joochan had left between them.

“So, are we going to do some playing today?” He asks, rubbing his hands together, and any gratitude Joochan had felt at his prompt arrival jumps out the window, shatters into a million tiny pieces and sets alight.

“Sounds like it,” Y clicks at more keys, playing with the software they’d been shown in their first class. There’s a notes section at the sides, that holds all the aims they had thrown together, when Y was in one of his more co-operative moods, and Y starts clicking to add instrument layers to the blank screen. Drums, piano, guitar. Click, click, click. Violin.

“Maybe we should start with the more basic stuff,” Joochan blurts, and then immediately wishes the ground would open and swallow him whole.

Y, of course, jumps on it immediately. “Basic?”

“Until we know what we’re doing a bit more. Learn how to work together.” He sincerely doubts the last part, looking at Y’s unimpressed smirk, and Daeyeol between them trying to look as if he hasn’t noticed the slip up, or the anger. 

“So what- you’re just not going to play?” There’s a brief pause where Y looks around Joochan’s seat as obviously as he can. “Is there something wrong?”

“Practise has been pretty intense,” Joochan says, throwing Daeyeol a shy smile he hopes the older man is more likely to accept. Daeyeol nods, eyes sympathetic.

Y doesn’t see enough of him to know it’s a lie.

“We could start with drums?” Daeyeol suggests. “I have a few samples we could use, and decide the beat first?”

Y stops staring at Joochan to nod and stand up, giving the seat at the computer to Daeyeol. The minutes tick by like this- with Daeyeol clearly trying to impress them, stubbornly avoiding addressing how stormy Y’s expression still is, and attempting to drag remarks from Joochan, who does his best to smile and join in and let Daeyeol repair his image like he’s trying to- until their teacher waltzes over. His hands are folded behind his back as he peers over them to the computer, and they wait in irritating, stiff-backed silence that must tell him all he needs to know about their group’s teamwork.

“So, what’s this, then,” his booming voice says. Joochan doesn’t look around to know the other students have made more progress than them, even after only one session: he can hear ‘ _ I was expecting more from you’ _ under the word’s anyway. 

Daeyeol quickly rattles off their ‘game plan’ in his self-assured, serious voice. Though the older man had done nothing to Joochan as of yet to make him doubt him, he still can’t shake that feeling from his first impression, that there’s just too much distance between them, that Daeyeol’s usual calm air shouldn't be mistaken as friendly, or warm. He points the teacher to something he’d noted in the margin of a notebook set before him, and nods and gestures easily at the comments thrown his way. He talks differently to the teacher than he does to them, Joochan realises. Like there’s less difference in, what- maturity? Skill? He can’t quite place it, just knows it leaves very little room for the rest of them. Y crosses his arms over his chest, and stares blankly at the screen.

“Mmm, yes I see,” their teacher says, in the same monotonous, adult voice that crawls under Joochan’s skin “very sensible. A different approach from your classmates, but with two experienced students such as yourselves, I trust I can leave you to it,” he clasps a hand on Y and Daeyeol’s shoulders, seemingly missing how different the reactions he gets are. 

He steps back, but just as Joochan stops holding his breath adds, “I’m sure Joochan here will step you from misstepping, too, yes? Quite the fine player, earned himself a reputation already,” Daeyeol’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and Joochan stiffens as Y glances at him from the corner of his eye. Joochan’s stomach drops before he realises his teacher is being serious. He hadn’t heard about the skipping yet- he works in a different building.

“Show these old men how it's all done, won’t you?” His teacher wiggles his fingers on an imaginary keyboard; Y’s huff of laughter sounds more like a hiss. Once his back is turned, Joochan’s clumsy smile falters.  _ Old men? _

Sungyoon is staring somewhere under the desk, and won’t meet Joochan’s eyes when they dart to him. He had thought Y was his age- he looks it, younger, sometimes, with his dark hoodies and round eyes, small mouth always just shy of pouting- and he’d never said anything to tell him otherwise. But that’s not what the teacher was saying.  _ Maybe all the scowling makes him look more immature, _ Joochan thinks .

Sadly, Daeyeol doesn’t seem as surprised as him, and they skim over the comment, Daeyeol no doubt rushing on in fear of Y turning around and explaining to the teacher exactly all the things Joochan has failed to offer them his wisdom on. The class ends before anything but some basic beats have been added to their track, and Joochan can’t help but feel a weight in his stomach reappear. Y packs up without looking at him, and leaves before Daeyeol has even finished handing out things they each need to do before the next session. 

Joochan drags himself back to his room and skips the next two days of classes. 

It’s the middle of the night before he leaves again, unable to sleep in a way that’s becoming all too familiar. He had laid in the dark for an hour or two- trying to stop his brain from spinning through its usual routine, when night falls, and he’s left alone in a school he is starting to doubt he ever should have stepped foot into, or will ever be able to bring himself to do so again, when he can practically feel his violin where it rests under the mess of clothes in the wardrobe, in its untouched case, and tosses and turns, as if he could shake off the ache that’s so hard to ignore when there’s no other distractions, the feeling that all the parts of him don't fit together properly- and then gave up, throwing a dark jacket over his shoulders as he stepped out into the cold, quiet night.

There’s a convenience store two courtyards from his dorm, open well into the night, and he stumbles there, his limbs heavy. The yellow glare of the overhead lights sears into his eyes as it comes into view, and he dips his head so his hood covers more of his face. It isn’t needed to keep other students from seeing him, like he’d thought, as there’s no one in the tiny store so late at night, in the middle of the week, but it presses the music blasting from his headphones closer. Joochan slugs a basket away from the door, and tries to focus on it, tries to draw the same feelings from it that he was once used to. He didn’t used to have to chase it; it’s harder to grasp these days, harder to keep.

Ice rattles into the basket, and he makes his way to the tills. He hears a clear voice thank a customer, and his feet still.

Sungyoon smiles at a woman from behind the cash machine, a name tag clipped near his heart.

Joochan curses, snapping his eyes away before the boy can sense him looking. He drops back into around an aisle, and sees his reflection staring back at him from a row of fridges. He hesitates for a moment, and then pulls one of the doors open and drops a few cans of soda into the near-empty basket. He forces himself towards the tills again, fighting his earphones back into a pocket. 

The hour being so late, there’s no need to que, and Y’s eyes meet his as soon as he’s stepped out of the aisles. He slides the basic towards him without a word, and slowly places the cans in a neat row, scanning them one by one.

“You know we have a freezer that can make this stuff, right?” The till beeps as he scans the bags of ice. 

“I’m surprised you’ve noticed.”

He’d snapped more than he’s meant to, but Y’s face is blank when he looks up again. Joochan gets the impression that this is worse, somehow, than the arrogant, raised brow amusement that he’d been expecting. He slides a note over the counter, rips the receipt from the till, and turns back out into the cold.


	6. Bitter, Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Smother- Daughter  
> Switch It Up- CIX

The days wear away in much the same way. The weather is getting colder, and Joochan takes more showers these days, his hands always seeking for a hot drink, and leaves for more midnight shop visits week by week, though he avoids the one he’d seen Y in. His classes probably go on the same, without him. He wakes one morning two weeks later to a text lighting his phone screen:

_Hey, Joochan_

_It’s Seungmin. A guy called Jibeom gave me your number, he said he knew you?_

_Just checking in._

_U ok?_

And then, a few hours later, from the same number.

_Let me know if you need anything._

He turns towards the ceiling and closes his eyes for a long time, and then saves the number. He doesn’t reply. 

Instead, he slides the wardrobe door open. The silence presses deafeningly around him, but the case is just there, the same, like always. The latches click open easily. The violin inside is dark wood, polished till Joochan can see a ghost of himself in its shine. There’s a fracture along one side, where hairline branches of gold thread out into the smooth wood. It looks exactly as he remembers it. Something about that feels wrong, and the feeling blooms in an angry whirl in Joochan’s chest, until it feels like it can’t fit and is pressing against his rib cage. He has the sudden urge to smash it against one of the blank, white walls. There’s a thud from the kitchen.

Joochan slams the wardrobe shut, flying to his feet. He grabs a sweater from his case and pads out into the living room. Y is leaning against the kitchen counter, a flask in his hand. The smell of coffee drifts through the apartment, but nothing in the kitchen has been touched, and Y is still wearing a thick, dark jacket. His hair is over his forehead, ruffled and damp, as if he’d been caught in the rain. It makes him look softer, but the completely neutral expression he’s wearing works against the effect tenfold.

“You look better,” he says.

Joochan’s heart lurches, and Y dabs a hand at the side of his head, and places the flask onto the marble.

“I’m sorry?”

“You were ill, right? At least I’d assumed,” Y’s eyes stay on him as he drinks. “You missed three classes.”

Joochan runs a hand through his hair, still sticking up in all directions from where he was sleeping. “R-right.” 

“Being alone with Daeyeol for three hours is more painful than you might think. Coffee?”

Y waves a hand towards where the counter cuts between them- there’s a takeout coffee in a little winter-themed paper cup. 

“For me?” Joochan asks, feeling like he’d missed something. Sungyoon nods. 

He hesitates, but some of Y’s usual sharp amusement had returned with his last words. It doesn't quite hide the watchfulness there, but Joochan accepts the drink anyway, unable to shake the feeling he’s being tested in some way. There’s something sweet lining his tongue, when he brings it away from his mouth again. Vanilla, or honeycomb.

Y focuses back on his own drink, closing his eyes as he sips it, and Joochan paces back a step or two to sit on the sofa. It doesn’t seem like Y plans to leave anytime soon. 

“He doesn’t seem that bad,” Joochan says into his cup.

Y looks at him from the corner of his eye, brow raised. “Huh?”

Joochan’s cheeks burn red hot. “Daeyeol. He doesn’t seem that bad.”

Y huffs and rolls his eyes all at once, dabbing more rain from his hair. The humour seems to be slipping away- this strange sense of calm that’s fallen, with the rain lightly hitting against the large window and the bitter, sweet smells filling the dorm, fractures just a little. Maybe Y has more of a problem with Daeyeol than Joochan had thought. _Maybe he has a problem with everyone._ Even as he thinks it, though, he hears another student’s voice in his head, distant and serious and trying to prove something. 

“Maybe a bit smarmy.”

Y makes a high, twinkling sound. It takes Joochan a moment to realise he’s laughing. But then he’s dumps his flask in the sink and mutters: “Isn’t everyone, compared to you?” He holds Joochan’s eye as he walks towards the bedroom door, hooded eyes too indifferent to even look mean.

“You aren’t,” Joochan blurts.

Y turns, his hand on the door frame. “What?”

“You- don’t seem like Daeyeol,” Joochan says, stumbling to pick the right words, too focused to consider whether the topic is a wise one. “You don’t sound like him.”

“Why would I?” Y shrugs, frowning.

“You’re older than me too, right?” He gulps as Y’s scowl reappears fully. “The teacher mentioned it the other day- called you ‘experienced’.” 

Y’s eyes flicker at the voice he puts on for the last word, at least, but his voice is dark. “And you think that was a compliment, do you, Prodigy?”

Joochan bites his tongue, hard.

He doesn’t know how Y manages to get under his skin so easily, how he still gets surprised every time he sees a flash of teeth behind the stony exterior, but he’s getting a little sick of Y’s constant questions, of the smile that says he’s always one step ahead of him, knows some secret more. Y’s looking at him closely again, and Joochan’s eyes fly over his expression, trying to find whatever is being hidden from him there. 

When he doesn’t say anything, Y shakes his head with another hissed laugh, grabs clothes from the wardrobe and shuts himself into the bathroom. Joochan stares at the coffee still warm in his hands as he hears the shower start- his head is spinning, but Y's sudden mood shifts have gotten to him, too, and anger pools in his stomach.

"Clean your room while you're here!" he yells over the racket of water, and then storms out of the living room, feeling small.

When next his composition class rolls around, Joochan hauls himself out of bed. Now that he’s spoken to Sungyoon, he feels more pathetic than ever, curled up in bed all day, when Y knows exactly where he is. As bad of a decision as he knows this is, he feels the need to show up. Do something to show Y isn’t right about him. Even if only he knows it.

Sungyoon double takes when he drops into the seat beside him, coffee in hand, and its almost satisfying enough to cover the riot of his heart in his ears. He slides a cup across the desk, sipping from his own. In the computer screen, he sees Y’s lip twitch upwards.

“Joochan!” Daeyeol says.

He jumps so high Y flinches, but plasters a smile over his face as he turns. “Hello,” he says. 

The older man drops a large, overflowing satchel near his chair, and nods back at him. “Has Sungyoon filled you in? Our piece has changed a lot since we last saw you.”

He still hasn’t realised they’re roommates, then. Which means Y can’t have told him where Joochan has been, the last few weeks. Daeyeol doesn’t ask him, either, so he doesn’t bother thinking of an explanation he could offer him. The former’s sweet front has been dropped anyway, and there’s a sour look on his face. 

Y wordlessly brings up a sound file, and presses play. 

The opening section is brash and messy, over-complicated drum sequences lying over more standard, lifeless percussion. There’s a piano track somewhere under it, but it’s mostly lost in the confusing timing changes, and nothing but the odd note reaches him. 

And then the music shifts. Sweeping, fluid bars of piano crash through the messy drum layers. The notes are wild and raging, dancing in and out of focus under clumsy mixing, but he hears them, all the same. Stormy, crashing waves. 

Joochan’s gaze darts to Y’s reflection- his eyes are glazed over, staring across the room. Joochan’s head replays the snide nickname ‘Prodigy’ over and over again, but externally, all he hears is Y. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting a few days for this chapter!  
> I hope you all had a lovely Christmas- or weekend, for those of you who don't celebrate it :)  
> <3


	7. Reappearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More songs on the playlist :D : 
> 
> Time- Gaho  
> Lived- Oneus

“You didn’t tell me you could play.”

Y exits the audio file and eyes him. “When was I supposed to do that?”

“So, any thoughts?” Daeyeol asks. “Its just a first draft, obviously, and we were mostly just trying things out-”

“It’s good.” Joochan says. He’s still looking at Y, but he can’t seem to look away- his hands have started to shake, and he shoves them under his legs. 

Daeyeol doesn’t notice. “Haha, it needs some work. We were told you’d be able to help.”

Joochan fights the urge to throw something at the back of their teacher’s head. 

“Well,” he wills his head to stop spinning as they stare at him, waiting “um-”

“Be as harsh as you like,” Daeyeol smiles. Joochan doesn’t know how to tell him it’s not him he’s afraid of offending.

His brain is still giving him nothing. “Can I hear it again?”

Y rolls his head back a little, but nods, and replays the piece. The shock is the same, when drums part for sweeping piano, but the surprise is numbed this time, and he can hear the way the notes fly out of control, sometimes, the jarring mixing over it all, the way the progressions stop short of what they could be. The strings it tugs in his chest shock him, but it hurts less this time, to be feeling things he’d thought he’d lost. He blinks a few times before they can turn to him, and then the feeling’s gone.

“Your teamwork could be better,” he finds himself saying slowly, “the sections don’t fit together, as well as they could.”

“Of course they don’t, we’re missing parts.” Y snaps.

Joochan gulps. _It was bound to come back to this sooner or later_ , he thinks.

“Even so-”

“Right, teamwork. Got it.” Y cuts him off, voice hard . “Anything else you can offer us?”

Joochan feels a muscle in his jaw jump and can’t stop his tongue before he’s saying: “Maybe it’s just one of you that needs to work on that.”

Y is, as always, a step ahead of him though. “Are you going to suggest anything that actually requires work from you?”

“I didn’t-”

“Bring your violin, yeah, I noticed.” He quirks a brow, eyes holding amusement that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. “You really expect us to believe you don’t play anything else?”

Daeyeol looks confused in a way that proves this is actually only Y’s guess, but the latter is already rising and pushing Joochan into the chair at the computer. Y reaches under it to slide a keyboard out from a layer tucked under the desk. Daeyeol glances around the room in an uncomfortable, skittish way, but he doesn’t seem likely to intervene anytime soon. Joochan has started to sweat. 

“You play, don’t you?”

Joochan nods, dumbly. The venom is gone from Y’s voice, back to his usual disinterest, but the way he’s sitting, his back to Daeyeol, boxes Joochan in at the computer. Joochan glances over his shoulder- there’s still twenty minutes left of the class. 

“Show us what you’d do,” Y says.

Joochan slides the keyboard away, and grabs the mouse. Y looks ready to start shouting at him, but then he’s bringing up their composition software and clicking at the piano section. He stares at the mess of notes for half a beat, and then is dragging notes across the dark lines, deleting sections, adding chords, stopping short the loose, over-complicated bars. Y doesn’t say anything from next to him. After a while, he leans back in his chair, and watches the screen with a blank expression. Daeyeol asks him a few times what he is doing, or asks to hear the difference in a section- he offers a few suggestions, most often making cases for the original version of particular sequences, and Joochan gets the impression that the other man is only partly _just_ trying to fill the silence. There’s still something hard in the set of his mouth; he hasn’t completely won him over, with his reappearance. 

And yet, the session ends, and no one asks another thing of him. Y nods along, face unreadable, when he plays the piece back to them one last time, only slightly tweaked. 

“So we’ll hear you play next session, then,” he says.

“I can’t make it.”

Y barely blinks an eye at his blurting, and waves Daeyeol away with a graceful twist of his hand. He leans against the desk as he jots something on a scrap of paper. “Then you can meet me in one of the practice rooms tomorrow,” he holds the paper out to Joochan, who reads a building, room number and time in a short, neat script, “and we can work there.”

Sungyoon sweeps his bag from the floor and leaves before Joochan can say anything. 

Joochan stops tensing his hands as soon as they’re out of sight, and draws his gloves quickly over his shaking fingers. The coffee he’d handed Y almost spills as he drops both cups into the bin- he’d hardly touched it.

He spends the rest of the day fretting. He goes back to the dorm, only to pace around his bedroom for hours. He finds his hand on the wardrobe door a few times, but he’s too wary of Y’s sudden return to open it. He stares at Seungmin’s number and considers texting him, but can’t think of anything to say. Afternoon wanes into evening. The dorm stays empty.

Joochan drags a suitcase from under his bed and shoves it against the door. He heaves the violin case from under a pile of clothes and drops it on his mattress, the violin on his shoulder before he can think about it. He stands in the middle of the room and lifts the bow without tightening or rosining it. He shifts his shoulders, breaths out, and places it atop the strings.

The sound is barely audible, and the bow stutters against the strings with every stroke. It sends vibration through his hands and he clenches his jaw, pressing down harder. The notes shake as he rushes a piece he’s played a thousand times. He’s out of tune again; he shifts, and screws his eyes shut. Every note is wrong. The bow weaves back and forth faster as he speeds up, his arm protesting against the pace. His hand jerks; the violin screeches. Joochan hurls the bow across the room. 

It rattles to the floor as Joochan slides down the wardrobe. His violin lies forgotten at his side, and he stares blankly at the suitcase against the door, breathing heavily. He puts music on at some point, but the sound feels distant and hollow.

He wakes the next day to a note on the table in Y’s writing, nothing more than their meeting time and place.

Joochan’s feet carry him to the right building, unsure of what else to do. It’s in one of the dance buildings, half-way across campus, and though he was hoping to get lost multiple times on the way, he finds his way there as if in a trance. He paces randomly down a few corridors once he’s inside, eyes flying nervously about him, ready to turn back and lock himself in the dorm. If it had been Daeyeol he was meeting, he would have, but Sungyoon being his roommate rids him of that option. If Y was waiting for him in the apartment again after this, he doubts it would be with a coffee in hand.

The decision is made for him, however, when he realises he has accidentally wandered down the right corridor. He’s in a bright, wide room, with windows across one wall and mirrors across the other three, floored with light, marked mood. There’s a piano pushed against one corner, but the lid is down, and the music drifting through the space is quiet and muffled. It’s coming from the next room, he realises with a start, and steps cautiously towards the door opposite him- it’s slightly ajar, and he can see through a square of polished glass to an identical practice room. 

A dark haired figure faces away from him, clad in dark, worn sportswear. They’re familiar even before they start moving, and Joochan stands rooted to the spot as Y bursts into motion. He’s crouched slightly, his centre of gravity kept low, but his movements are fluid and graceful. His arms spin closely around his torso, extend in softer waves, moving so fast Joochan has trouble tracking them. He frowns, and moves closer to the door.

He’s so focused he’s still standing frozen when Y spins, and his eyes find Joochan’s.

He stumbles away, but Y is faster, and is in the doorway before Joochan has moved more than two steps. 

“Joochan!”

He turns to see Y close the door behind him, and throw his arms out. “Running away again?”

Joochan’s voice dies in his throat, and Y’s irritation slides back behind a neutral expression as he searches his face. There’s a few beats of silence, where Joochan realises the bass-heavy music has stopped, and then he speaks. “What’s the bag for?”

Joochan touches a strap of the backpack over his shoulders self-consciously. “I’m going home for a few days.”

Y nods in short, jerky motions, pressing his lips together. He crosses his arms, and then says carefully “Are you coming back?” 

Joochan’s heartbeat stutters, his hands twitching into fists. “What do you mean?”

Y shrugs. “You’ve been skipping classes for weeks. Have you even talked to anyone but me and Daeyeol? Even then, you won’t actually work with us.”

“Of course I will-”

“Then where are you going?” Y’s voice jumps louder to talk over him, and it echoes dully in the wide, empty room. “Are you ever actually going to tell us what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Joochan's shouting too, now, and Y shakes his head, exasperated. “I know you must think the rest of us are helpless, fumbling idiots, Joochan, but I’m not that dumb.”

Joochan huffs, throwing his head to the side. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spits, and storms towards the door. His hand is reaching for the handle when Y speaks again.

“You can’t play, can you?”

Joochan’s shoes squeal against the laminate floor as he stops dead.


	8. First Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Black Swan (Orchestral ver.)- BTS

“What are you talking about, of course I can play.” Joochan turns back to look at him, but Y doesn’t move, just stands calmly, his arms crossed. “I’m a violin major. I auditioned. How would I even be here if I couldn’t play?”

Y glances at the floor and shakes his head. There’s a stuffed, cylindrical duffel bag at his feet, where he’d dragged it from the other practice room- without warning, he dips and slings it at Joochan. Y watches as he catches it and winces. It’s nothing more than a pained catch of breath, but he’d been too surprised to stop it, and it sounds deafening in the silence. 

Y smiles at him, but it looks like a frown. 

“It took me a while to put it together, I’ll give you that. I thought it was germs at first- the awkwardness, the gloves, the general snobbery” he waves a hand vaguely in Joochan’s direction, ignoring the scowl this earns him “but, the other things didn’t make sense. Skipping classes even though you're every teacher’s pride and joy. Buying ice in the middle of the night. You never carry- well- anything. You claim practice has been grueling and yet your violin has been shoved at the back of the wardrobe since you got here, I’ve never even heard you play. It’s almost like you don’t want to. But that’s not it, is it?”

Joochan’s eyes sting, but he can’t tell if it’s tears or anger making his vision swim. Either way, Y doesn’t seem to care- the set of his shoulders show he’s already seen whatever he’d wanted to.

“When did you hurt your hand, Joochan?”

He still doesn’t say anything- his mouth has clenched shut, and all Joochan can do is stare back at Y, trying to look as if he’s isn’t struggling to hold himself together.

“Does anyone else know?”

“What do you want, Y?”

Y shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I have a deal to propose.”

“You’re blackmailing me?” Joochan all but yells.

“What-no,” Y frowns, “I want to help you.”

“ _Help_ me? Why would you do that?”

“What, like you're doing such a good job of hiding it yourself?” Y shoots back. The careful, solemn look has gone for his face now, and he presses on in a more normal voice, that makes Joochan’s pulse spike less. “You don’t think Daeyeol’s started to get suspicious? You’re clearly better than you’re letting on, but you hardly ever show up. He’s been talking about seeing you play for weeks- I’m not entirely sure it isn’t why he joined our group in the first place.”

“All the other groups were full, he told us that on the first day.”

“You were the only one late, Joochan,” Y’s eyes are lidded and he tips his head, like he’s tired of him, but his voice is far louder than that. “And your other classes? What’s the point of even being here if you’re not even going to try?”

“So, what is it to you?”

“Some of us don’t get to come here on pocket money,” Y snaps.

Joochan throws his arms up. “Would you stop that! Not everything’s about money, Y, for God’s sake! How do you expect me to believe you want to help me when you insult me every time you open your mouth? Yes, I have money, but what do you think that’s helping right now?”

His voice breaks on the last word and he snaps his mouth shut, his chest heaving in and out so fast he’s started to feel light headed. Y stares back at him for a second, and then, to Joochan’s surprise, his gaze drops, and he stares at his feet. He can’t see his expression, but only once his ears stop ringing does Joochan realise how loudly he was yelling. He gulps thickly. 

“Just tell me what you want so I can stop talking to you already.”

“I want you to stay,” Y says, clear voice quiet. “I need a roommate, and I need to pass composition, which doesn’t look like it’s going to happen right now.”

“So join another group.”

“No one else will work with me.”

“I wonder why,” Joochan says. 

But he knows why, by now. It’s all slotted together, in his head- the first day, when he’d found Y alone at the back of a room full of whispering students already in pairs, hiding their laughter behind their hands, all of Y’s clips and when they’d started, how his face had changed when he’s saw Joochan’s driver carry in his bags. He’d seen him working in the convenience store, and his absence had been different, since then. 

Y catches how Joochan’s eyes flicker to his scuffed, worn combat boots, and seems to understand what he’s thinking.

“You already know I‘m older than you,” Y monotones, in a voice that shows this wasn’t something he’d wanted. “The store isn’t the only place I work, either. I’m on just about every scholarship you can think of, and I’ve still been saving for years to get into this school. I’m not going to fail this degree, Joochan, I _can’t_ fail this degree.”

There’s a dark, cold glint in Y’s steady gaze, but what once looked distant now looks desperate. 

“Ok- fine- say I stay, what happens then?” Joochan laughs. “Things get better for you, maybe, but what about me? I just go on hiding this forever?”

Y shakes his head. “I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. If you stay, I’ll help you hide it from everyone, and you’ll get more time to rest. I’ll help you take care of your hand- hands- whatever it is- I’m a dancer, I’m used to injuries. Tell me whatever you need to do to pass your classes and I’ll help. Hell, teach me to play if you need to. We can record me playing instead, if it’s good enough no one will know the difference anyway.”

Joochan sighs and turns towards the door again. Y steps between them, a hand on his shoulder stopping Joochan from leaving.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy,” he says, “but what’s the alternative? You keep this up another week or two and then leave? If that’s what you wanted, you wouldn’t be here.”

“This won’t work, Y.”

Y’s hand drops from his shoulder, and he stands straighter, no longer peering so closely at Joochan’s face. The corner of his mouth starts to turn up. “But you want it to, don’t you?” 

Somewhere outside there’s a muffled roar of noise, and students start to file past the window, their lessons over for the day. Joochan watches them pass, laughing and pushing their friends, smiling and stretching muscles out as they go, all bright and glowing, caught in the rich, orange tones of low sun cutting through the hallway.

“What’s the first step of this plan?”

Sungyoon slides the backpack from his back and slings it over a shoulder. “We go back to the dorm, you unpack all the bags you’ve shoved under your bed,” he holds the door open, “and I try not to laugh at how many identical, fancy grey suits you own.”

Joochan follows Y back to the apartment, and starts to do just that. He’s still in shock a little, moving slowly and shakily, spacing out often, and hasn’t fully agreed to the plan- which he makes sure to remind Y of many times- but after a few hours, the luggage under his bed is empty. Y helps him unload some smaller things, a jacket or two on pegs by the door, shampoo bottles in the shower, and then leaves quickly. He arrives an hour later with bags full of food, and unpacks them into the kitchen cupboards without a word. He plays music from his tiny speaker in the living room, something wordless and quiet, and makes a point of leaving Joochan’s violin case on his desk before he leaves. For the most part, they ignore each other. 

It’s strange, going to sleep with the sounds of him still in the dorm. Y inches the door open hours later, and he turns away from the sliver of light, wiping a hand across his cheeks. He holds his breath until Y’s breathing changes. Then, he buries his face in the scratchy fabric of his pillows, and tries to convince himself it feels better now someone knows.


End file.
